by Louise Fein
“Erna . . . we . . . none of us are perfect.”
She gives a hollow laugh and blows her nose.
“Except you, Hetty.” She slides her hankie back into her pocket. “You’re pretty close to perfect.”
“Me?” I choke. “I’m just about as far from that . . .”
“Yes, you are.” She studies me with her green eyes. “You never do anything wrong. You’re clever and pretty and brave. You stand up for your friends, even if they haven’t done the right thing, and everyone adores you. I don’t deserve a friend like you.”
“Oh, Erna, if only you knew. I’m not what you think I am . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“If I tell you, you must swear—”
“Of course, I swear!”
But the room is filling up. Too many ears, too close. My heart pumps hard. I’m so desperate to talk to her about Walter, but here it’s too risky. Besides, since I shan’t be seeing him again, it hardly matters anymore. Perhaps someday, in the future, when I stop hurting. Maybe we’ll be able to have a giggle about it. One day.
“Not here,” I say at last. “Not yet. Just not yet.”
“Hett—”
Fräulein Ackermann appears in the doorway and the chatter in the room fades.
“Heil Hitler.” We salute.
“Heil Hitler,” she replies, smiling broadly as she opens up her first aid case.
ON SUNDAY MORNING, I’m awake before dawn. The house sighs with the rhythms of its sleeping occupants. I’m not going to meet Walter, so why do I lie here, wide awake? I toss and turn, but sleep is not going to return. I might as well walk the dog since I’m awake.
I creep through the frigid, silent house to fetch Kuschi, wrapping myself in my coat, hat, and gloves and head out through the iron gate into the darkness. Kuschi makes the decision, tugging on the leash, leading me toward the river. I try to pull him the other way, but then, as Walter won’t be there anyway, I give in to his demands.
As I approach the bridge, the eastward sky is beginning to lighten. I pause on the ancient hump and lean over the stony wall as I’ve done so many times before, to watch the dark water flow beneath. A movement in the road makes me jump and Kuschi stirs at my feet, thumping his tail against my legs.
He arrives, moments later, shoulders hunched inside his coat, the sound of his footsteps lost beneath the rush of the water. We stare at each other through the low morning light.
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Then why are you here, Miss Herta?” Walter’s voice carries a hint of amusement. Irritatingly self-assured.
“I’m walking my dog.”
“Of course you are. Of all the places in Leipzig you could walk your dog . . .”
“I like walking here. And you? What’s your reason for being here?”
“I came to see you.”
He stands close, leaning over the wall, and for a moment I long for him to put his arm around my shoulders, but he does not.
“What made you so certain I would be here?”
“Just a hunch.” He turns toward me, the warmth of his breath on my face, a self-certain smile on his lips.
“Why do you think you’re so clever, Walter Keller? Why are you so arrogant to think that I want to spend my time with you?”
He shakes his head and looks at the river. “I’m not in the least bit certain,” he says. “I took a chance. I admit, I’m pleased to see you here. I can’t deny that. I can’t deny I’m attracted to you. That I enjoy your company, despite our differences, and all the danger. No, more, I love your company. But if you look me in the eye, now, and tell me you never want to see me again, then I shall go away and never bother you again.”
He turns around to face me. It’s light enough to see him properly. I square up to tell him exactly that: Leave me alone. I have no need of you. You are dangerous to me and I want you out of my life. Give me strength, mein Führer.
But the words fail me.
We stand close, staring at each other in silence, the water swirling beneath us.
“You can’t say it, can you?” he murmurs. That hint of amusement again.
My heart burns and I want to hit him. Beat him hard on the chest with my fists. But I long for something else, too. I want to climb right inside his skin and know him completely.
So I say nothing at all.
A fraction of movement and his lips, warm, lighter than air, brush mine. I freeze. The shock of it. The air around me contracts. Then he is kissing me, properly. His tongue parts my lips and he pulls me toward him, passing his arms around my back. I’m lost in him, in this moment.
Then I remember my vow and pull away.
“I’m sorry,” Walter says. “I shouldn’t have.”
“No. You shouldn’t.”
“I won’t—”
“I . . . I like it though. I like it when you kiss me. But we can’t . . .”
“Let’s just . . . make the most of things while we can. Who knows what will happen in the future. Perhaps”—he grabs both my hands—“you and I should just run away together. I can’t fight the urge to be with you. I don’t want to fight it. So let’s just go and live in sin.”
I laugh, because I don’t know if he is joking.
“It’s lighter now.” He looks around. “People will soon be passing by—let’s walk.”
We leave the bridge and take the path between the bank and the river. It’s narrow and we have to walk in single file for a short distance. When the path widens, he comes alongside me and takes my hand. Our step is in time. Easy and natural, it’s as if we’ve been walking step by step together for a thousand years.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “about the other day. I don’t want to argue, and I hate that you think badly of me. It’s so hard to know what to think about . . . everything.”
“I’m sorry too. I was angry. Things are . . . hard . . . I took it out on you, and I shouldn’t have. It’s not your fault. And I could never think badly of you.” We walk on a few more paces in silence. “Do you remember that day I fished you out of the lake when you couldn’t swim properly?” he asks suddenly.
“The day you saved my life, you mean. How could I possibly forget?”
“You were quite small.” He laughs.
“You don’t forget almost dying, Walter, nor the person who rescued you.”
“I remember it like yesterday. I relived it enough!”
“What do you mean?”
He looks away, as if embarrassed.
“I dreamed about it afterward. Nightmares, really. That I didn’t save you. I kept diving down, looking for you, but you weren’t there. Or I did get ahold of you, but you’d slip through my fingers and I’d watch you sinking down, staring up at me, fingers outstretched, but I just couldn’t get to you.”
“Oh, Walter, that’s horrible! Why didn’t you say?”
He smiles. “It was silly, really, because I did get to you. I suppose it shows just how much you meant to me, even then.”
I pass my arms around his waist and squeeze him tight.
“And I thought you never even noticed I existed.”
There is a deep sense of peace in the air.
“You were right, the other day,” I say, sighing. A confession. “About Herr Bäcker. I mean, he shouldn’t have said the things he did, but it was right to keep quiet.”
He gives me a squeeze this time. “I was shocked, when I thought you’d reported him. But I shouldn’t have doubted you.” He smiles again. “I knew you would never do such a terrible thing.”
Kuschi rushes off ahead, chasing rabbits in the woods, his black shape flashing between the trees. The shadow of Tomas’s father crashes to the ground.
You don’t know what I once did.
The trees begin to thin as we reach the edge of the fields. Walter’s face is illuminated as he walks through a patch of sunlight. His eyes are full of hope.
If only it could just be him and me in the world. Adam and Eve. Beginning
afresh.
“Do you really think we could?” I ask on a whim.
“Could what?”
“Run away together.”
He laughs.
“Where would we go?”
“Paris . . . or New York. Switzerland. It wouldn’t really matter, would it, if we could be somewhere together. Properly together.”
“We could check into swish hotels.”
“Or a cozy guesthouse.”
“Or rent a chic apartment on the Champs-Elysées.”
“I would fetch you breakfast in bed and then go make my fortune writing love poems.” We laugh at that idea.
“We’d have to take Kuschi,” I say after a pause. “I couldn’t leave without him.”
“Sure—why not? Do you suppose he speaks French?”
I dig him in the ribs and he wraps his arms tight around me.
“If we were to run away together, Hetty Heinrich, I should never, ever let you go. Not for a single minute.”
WE PART AT the bridge and only then do I glance at my watch. It’s almost ten already—damn. I run with Kuschi all the way back to Fritzschestrasse. Gasping for breath, I slow down when I’ve rounded the corner past Walter’s old flat and only then do I notice the figure leaning against the railings beneath the branches of the cherry tree. All gangly arms and legs. Tomas. What’s he doing here?
His face lights up when he sees me. “Ah! There you are. I was hoping to catch you before you went out. I should like to walk with you today, or one Sunday, if you would like to, that is.” His Adam’s apple rises and falls visibly through the skin of his throat as he swallows.
“It’ll have to be another time—I’ve already walked this morning.”
“You’re flushed.” He peers closely at my face.
“I’ve been running,” I reply quickly. “I’m late, and I’ll be in trouble if I don’t go in now.”
“Or we could just talk? We don’t have to walk—we could go to a café or—”
“Another time, Tomas. Today just isn’t convenient. Next week perhaps?”
I don’t give him time to answer as I pull Kuschi through the gate and up the steps, leaving him standing on the pavement, watching me as I close the front door.
There are two sides, or more perhaps, to every thought. Every action. We only ever want to see one. But you alone, Walter, you make me see there can be another. Or another. Or another. You make me see the world is so different from what I thought it was, from what I have always been taught it is. I know you were only joking when you talked of running away, but I can’t help but think of it. You asked me once to imagine life in a free country where I could be anything I want to be. I can picture so vividly being in some foreign city. I imagine the streets, the houses, the people and the way they might behave. But most of all I imagine living with you, darling Walter. It is a place where nobody knows or even cares that you are a Jew. They don’t care if we walk hand in hand in the street or sit at the same table or watch the same films or dance together, shocking and free. Would that really be so wrong? And I can’t help myself, but I imagine living in sin with you, doing all the things lovers do together. The idea is both exhilarating and terrifying. But I know it will never happen, so instead, I write it here, in my journal where nobody but I can see.
Twenty-Three
December 19, 1937
I dig my hands deep inside the fur-lined pockets of my coat and hurry toward our meeting place. It’s nearly the shortest day of the year and, as yet, it’s barely light. A keen wind lifts my hair and numbs my face.
He’s there, waiting, hunched inside his coat on the low wall of the bridge. As soon as I reach him, he gathers me into his arms.
He enfolds me inside his coat, and pressed against him, I’m safe and warm. He kisses me gently on the lips.
“I’ve been watching the sun come up,” he says, waving a hand in the direction of the glow in the sky behind him. His face is so close I can smell his peppermint-scented breath. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, looking at me.
Kuschi begins to whine at my side. He pauses and whines again, louder. I pull away from Walter and bend down to stroke his head.
“Let him go,” Walter says, holding his coat open. “He can run around and have some dog fun. I need you in here. With me.”
I unclip Kuschi’s leash and he ambles off on the path by the river, waving his tail in happiness. What simple pleasures a dog has.
If only it were so with humans.
We walk, hip to hip, arms wrapped around each other. The wheat field ahead of us is winter bare, dark earth lying inert in frigid furrows and ridges, waiting for spring to warm and waken the hidden life slumbering deep inside. Beyond the field, slim skeletons of leafless beech trees extend away into seemingly endless forests. Kuschi’s moving shape merges and disappears against the black furrows.
Then Walter kisses me and the outside world fades.
It’s just his body against mine. The hard ground beneath my feet, and the smooth lining of the inside of his coat against the back of my hands.
Lost in his touch, the sound of a cough rips me from my entrancement.
“What was that?” I whisper.
“What?”
“A noise.” I’m frigid with fear.
Walter looks over his shoulder. Nothing moves.
“I didn’t hear anything.” He turns back to me.
I scan the landscape. The grassy bank. The empty path. The line of trees. We hold our breath.
Crack. The unmistakable sound of a twig breaking underfoot. Then movement on the riverbank.
Suddenly Kuschi’s running back from the field, barking furiously, as he disappears over the other side of the bank.
Walter’s eyes are wide.
“Who’s there?” he shouts.
No reply. No barking. Only the wind rustling dying leaves in the treetops and the river flowing behind us.
“Stay here,” I whisper, and, throat tight, I climb up the bank. On the other side is the little lane. My knees give way at the sight of a tall, gangly figure in a dark jacket with his collar turned up, walking briskly away. Kuschi runs in circles around him, inviting him to play. This is no stranger.
Bile rises in my throat.
“Get away, stupid bastard dog.” The figure bends and pushes Kuschi roughly. He half falls but goes back for more, perhaps thinking this is some kind of a game. The boy straightens and looks back. My eyes lock with his.
“Tomas,” I croak, but he doesn’t hear.
He shouts gruffly again at Kuschi and aims a kick at him. Then he turns and breaks into a run, his jacket flapping at his sides.
I stumble and trip back down the bank to where Walter is pacing.
“It was Tomas. He saw us—”
Walter’s face is drawn and pale. “We’re finished. Both of us.”
“No, it’ll be okay. Tomas wouldn’t . . .” I try to convince myself, as well as him.
“Heaven knows what’ll happen to you, but I’ll be convicted, Hetty, for sure.”
“Now you’re overexaggerating,” I say, but my throat tightens despite my confident words.
“Am I?” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t believe so.” He begins to follow the path back toward the bridge. He turns to me angrily. “You of all people must know what happens to Jews who seduce Germans. And don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Wait—” I run to keep up with his fast pace.
Back at the bridge, his face is tight, eyes full of fear. “I’m sorry, Hetty. I’ve been so stupid. I should have been more careful. Must get home. Must think.”
“Please. Try not to worry. I’ll make it okay. Tomas is a friend. You’ll see.”
I try to call out for Kuschi, standing on the bank, tail between his legs, but I have no voice.
Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be Tomas?
I DROP KUSCHI at home, then take a red-and-yellow tram south through the center of Leipzig. It screeches and winds its way around the edge of the old to
wn and past the grand government buildings. Near the law courts I change trams and head west, out into the industrial grime of Plagwitz. Row upon row of grim tenement blocks with a few straggly trees and rough patches of grass punctuate the cityscape. Redbrick chimneys and the high rooftops of solid factory buildings tower over blocks of flats.
At the tram stop I pull the map, with Tomas’s address scribbled in the top corner, from my pocket to double-check the route. It’s not far. I find the tenement block, one of several identical ones, just off Karl-Heine-Strasse and across the road from a two-story factory. A truck rolls out of the high iron gates with SA guards on either side. The barrier is lowered once the truck has passed through.
I turn and stare up at the flats. Beneath each small, square window hangs a swastika. For the first time, I see menace, not glory, in the rows of black, white, and red fluttering benignly in the breeze. I shudder and push the door open into a dreary entrance hall.
The caretaker, a shriveled old man with cloudy eyes, directs me to the third floor of the building, flat number eleven. The stairwell smells of urine and cigarette smoke. I climb the steps slowly.
I hesitate at the door of flat eleven. Faded red paint clings in patches to the dark wood. I scrunch my hand into a fist and knock firmly on the door.
I wait and the silence deepens.
The door opens a fraction and a young boy peers around at me.
“Is Tomas in?”
His head disappears and the door swings wide open. Tomas is silhouetted in the doorway, the room behind him dimly lit. Several of his siblings stare at me with big, questioning eyes. He steps into the corridor and quickly pulls the door shut behind him.
Anger radiates from him like heat.
“Tomas—I can explain. Can we talk?”
He shrugs and gives me a raw, hard stare.
“Please.”
“There is nothing to explain. I saw all I needed with my own eyes.” He folds his arms over his chest. “I watched you for a long time.”
The smell in the corridor is nauseating.
“Can we go somewhere else to talk?” I plead. “I can’t explain here.” I imagine ears being pressed up against the thin walls of the surrounding flats.
Tomas turns and leads the way downstairs without another word. Thoughts tumble: Tomas’s hand on mine in the cinema; his tawny eyes, owl-big through his smudged glasses, always watching me; his occasional calls to the house; his gentle, unwavering friendship. Tomas knows my movements. My early morning walks with Kuschi on Sundays. Stupid, stupid of us not to have varied our routine.